Brazil
by liesincrayon
Summary: Eames/Arthur SLASH Warnings: Violence, Language, Sexual Content. "Do you still need me here?" Prequel to the movie.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: Written in two days, spell-check brought to you by Firefox! No Beta, all errors are mine. Enjoy~

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Eames was between jobs, but he hadn't jumped at Cobb's offer so readily just because of that, no he always liked working the Extractions the man orchestrated. They for one, were never dull, and Eames thrived on things not being dull. Secondly, they had Arthur, Cobb's waking shadow, and Eames loved goading the Point-man. Truthfully though, Eames loved doing more than that he loved just being around Arthur, a rather sappy change from their normal friendship. As if they'd even had a normal friendship to begin with, Arthur didn't seem to be the type to have many friends, or to even know what friendship was.

Which was amusing to Eames, it gave him something to try to do, teach him friendship, instead of loyalty. Oh yes, Arthur had plenty of that, just Eames only had the luck of having it when he was on jobs with Arthur. Eames could read Arthur well enough, take him apart, understand how he ticked, but only what Arthur showed on the surface. There were none of those tells that Eames relied on with the masses, relied on to learn his marks and their kin. Which was the basis for Eames' obsession with picking at the man. Teasing, prodding, doing anything he could to try and force a reaction out of Arthur, but it never worked. Arthur just rolled with it, or gave him that little look of confusion, as if he had an inability to understand social interactions.

Eames loved it anyway, even though Arthur was frustration and impossibility, he loved every second working these jobs with them. It also helped that Cobb tended to pick the jobs that didn't set off Eames' alerts, too much undercover, too much government work had left him with little peculiarities. Cobb had peculiarities of his own, and Eames respected that, knew to stay the bloody hell away from Mal in those dreams. If maybe Arthur would give him a bit more take in their interactions, he'd know what sort of ticks set the Point-man off too.

He stepped off the plane, jittery, too much time spent in such a closed location, he could deal with it on land, but in the air, it wasn't as if there was anywhere to escape to. Eames liked the freedom of the baggage check, sucked in stale recycled air, felt like a man again, instead of a caged animal. They were supposed to send a car for him, and someone to collect him, which was good, sense he didn't even have enough money on him to exchange in currency to even hire a car to drive him to whatever building Cobb had rented for the planning phase.

He would have had money, but there had been a casino in the airport on the other side of this little jaunt, and he'd gone to broke on the Blackjack tables. It had been worth it, having that pretty little thing sitting on his knee as he played the part of the high-roller. He always reveled in the emotions displayed on the faces of those women every time they figured out he wasn't a millionaire. When he cashed out dead-broke, and told them upfront he was destitute now. Only once, had they offered him a place to stay, he hadn't accepted but that offer had returned to him a little of his belief in the good-will of man.

His bag was relatively unharmed he noted, the worn leather still holding together at the seams when he fishes it out of the rotary luggage claim. The airport is huge, befitting the bustling city outside, Eames has always loved Brazil. So many people to watch, especially here in São Paulo. He liked the night-life, exploding with experimental music and avant-garde artists, enjoyed the base displays of human nature to be found where copious amounts of alcohol were served.

It wasn't night now though, even though his body felt like it should be. He was living in perpetual jet-lag most days, but he'd settle into the order soon enough. First he needed to make contact with his co-workers, which meant tracking them down in the huge expansive airport, or tracking down the contact they'd arranged for him. Of course if he'd saved some of his money, he'd be able to lounge around in one of the restaurants in the airport and do this the lazy way.

Meager luggage in tow, he shrugged out of his leather over-jacket, and set to work looking for a sign with his name on it, or a familiar face. It didn't prove too difficult after all, he'd managed to make a full circuit of the airport before Arthur found him, with a more neutral expression than usual, which meant Eames had probably given him some trouble in the hunt. This pleased Eames at least, giving Arthur annoyance was something he relished.

"You should have stayed near your baggage claim, I was prepared to pick you up there." Arthur snaps, at least as snappy as Arthur got. "Thought I'd take a walk, if you gave me a cell-number you know we wouldn't have these mix-ups. You could slip it to me on a napkin, I promise to be discreet about it." Eames teases, gets nothing out of Arthur as usual, he'll get the man's number later anyway. He doesn't ask questions yet, revels in the quiet drive through busy streets, watches Arthur's hands flex against the steering wheel. Arthur had beautiful capable hands, that Eames had scene take a gun apart in seconds, snap sights on, reload. Dangerously beautiful hands, sometimes he felt like kissing them, and then thought better.

Arthur was fun to look at, as much as he was fun to tease, just the type of man Eames liked to take to bed, when he thought to take a man to bed. Usually it was easier to get a woman, they just seemed more readily available, but Eames wasn't the type to complain either way. But Arthur was unapproachable, it wasn't that he gave off those no-touch vibrations, it was just that Eames had no way to gauge Arthur's reciprocation or possible acceptance of his offers. He was either clueless to the flirtation Eames was doing, or was returning it in his subtle way, but damned if Eames could read him either way.

São Paulo was busy as usual, and packed with commuters. The largest city in Brazil, it was all bright lights and loud noises. Even after dark it was loud, and even brighter, with the washed-out sun-streaked daylight gone it left a city of neon and strobe. Eames was looking forward to the trap of night-life, the personae he could put on in the dim gritty light. Hopeless business-men, looking for an outlet, starstruck celebrities, there was a whole spectrum to be used. Not to mention the masks he would wear for Cobb's use, so many possibilities.

"How have you been then Arthur?" He asks, small-talk, usually Arthur ignores him, too busy to dwell on talking that has no benefit to the job, at least that's what Eames thinks keeps Arthur from replying. There are only so many ways a man's mind can work, and out of the options, Eames finds Arthur's ego to be the most-likely outcome. "Well." The Point-man's reply is a start, no details on the jobs between their last one together, and this one. Nothing to tell him how many times Arthur had been held at gunpoint, hit by a car, set on fire, shot. He's worked with them long enough, done enough jobs to know that Arthur gets hurt, gets hurt a -lot- and never seems to show a single emotional response after the pain is gone.

It's not possible to just forget that pain, it's still a memory in the waking world, albeit a fuzzy one. In British Intelligence he'd seen more than a few men snap over the pain. Months, maybe years after it had ended, the memory just wouldn't go away. Maybe you loose your leg, bleed out in the dream, or maybe it's a slit throat, it's still there, just the wound isn't. So he knows Arthur can't just turn those memories off, the man has to be affected by it, Eames itches with curiosity to see how. But at the same time he doesn't want to, doesn't want to see how Arthur might be hurting so deep sutures or bandages couldn't stave the wound.

Seeing Arthur get hurt in the dreamscape kills him a little, maybe even more than his own wounds do. He cannot fathom how Cobb manages to put Arthur in those positions time and time again. He also knows Arthur had to be somewhere before his partnership with Cobb, that the Point-man puts himself in those positions all on his own. Eames doesn't think knowing why would relieve this worried feeling he feels any less, it would probably make it worse in fact.

It's a warehouse as usual, the windows have already been covered up with newspaper to protect against prying eyes. Arthur pulls the car right into it, by the time he is shutting off the engine, the garage door is sliding down. Eames leaves his luggage in the trunk, stretches his legs and studies their surroundings, slinging his coat across one shoulder.

By the grease stains and the remnants of hook-ups on the ceiling it appears their new work-place was once a repair shop of some kind. Now though collapsible tables have been set up instead. There are boxes all over the place, papers strewn on tables, and Arthur's work-station, as always, is the neatest table in the entire place. Eames purposefully lays his coat over the Point-man's desk, messing up the careful organizational work of print-outs, maps, and receipts. Arthur was also the book-keeper, a fact of which Eames was glad, Arthur never stiffed him on a check. The man also tended to make sure they got paid for services rendered, which meant a 100% pay-rate for jobs under Cobb.

A year or so ago, Eames used to compete for jobs with the duo, and whatever rag-tag team they had gathered at the moment. He'd always had a competitive spirit, fought bitterly for jobs till he'd been forced to actually work with them once. Eames was not above admitting when he'd been bested, and their mark would not have been a man able to take had he been going it alone. Cobb was indeed the best at what he did, for what it was he did. Eames admitted that readily, but Cobb didn't have the ability to Forge like Eames did. A unique ability in the dreamscape, there were not many who could take on the faces of other people, real people, not shades or fiction.

After that first job Eames doesn't compete, if they are fighting for the same job, if it involves Eames' unique capabilities, hits into the field he is so skilled at, Cobb brings him in with no dicking around. Arthur is the money-man, and Eames is positive Arthur does not even know how to dick around. A fact of which Eames is glad, since it means he always gets paid when Arthur is around, albeit he would like to get acquainted with a different dick in concern to Arthur.

He takes the time to make himself a little more comfortable, rolls up his sleeves, stretches his arms up fully to try and work his spine into submission, at least he'd flown first class. Arthur had disappeared down a hallway filled with branching rooms, probably former offices. Eames doesn't follow him, he knows all the work gets done here in this main room, which means Cobb has probably turned one of the old offices into his own. Eames takes a walk around his new working environment, studies the rough-drafts of levels strewn out on one of the tables. Any real meat would be on Arthur's desk he knew, but annoying the Point-man to the max took precedence over Eames' curiosity over their job.

It was the usual arrangement, a table for each station of the job, not all outfits were as set in their steps, but Cobb's jobs were always smooth in that planning phase, everything worked out to perfect precision. It was the part where they were actually in the dream when shit would go to hell usually. Either there would be some detail Arthur would miss (a rare occasion, and usually something that would not have mattered if it were not completely up-the-wall), something the Architect hadn't planned in (like an escape route in one case), or the kick wouldn't come in time and Eames would end up with something broken (usually his arm) in a few places.

Eames didn't mind usually, sometimes it would be something to set off a tick, but usually it couldn't be helped. Besides, there was no use getting angry, Cobb did enough of that for a whole group of people. Eames could understand it, having to live on an edge like that, he did not often have to do it himself, but there was a time in his life when he was not exactly on the same side as the law back in the UK. He was very rarely on the same side of the law now, but he had enough identities, and enough experience to have safe-havens this time, he was no longer the anxious young-man. He also didn't have anyone to go back home to, Cobb missed his family something fierce, his shade showed some of that.

He didn't know how Arthur could deal with that bitch's ire so often, he was glad he never much had to deal with her head-on. He didn't know the whole story there, and respected his former-rival enough to not go snooping into it. He knew basics, like why Cobb couldn't go home, he also knew how wrong they must be, there was no way he'd murdered that woman. Eames trusted Cobb with his back, it would have been hard to do that with the knowledge that a man had killed his wife, his soul-mate. It just wouldn't sit well with him, was one of those ticks, something you just don't do. He'd seen enough of that when he'd worked his first year at the 'Yard.

Everyone International called it the 'Yard, after awhile he did too, but really it was the Met, the office was the 'Yard, and after that first year working streets he didn't much go to the office. He remembered gritty xeroxed scenes, used to dream in black and white those first few months. Then there was blood, the man who killed his lover when she tried to leave him. The woman who threw her child off the bridge. The terrorist bombings, where anyone available walked perimeters. Eames had a lot of ticks, most of them could be tracked straight to his work for Britain. Governments aren't as soft-hitters as the civil-sector is, working for British Intelligence had been that much worse.

He's found a nice seat, a wheeled office-chair that had probably been vacated in the garage for years. The wheels are rusty, and when he leans back the springs in the spine croak from disuse, he'll hang his coat here when Arthur is done fussing about it. Scooting his chair closer to one of the currently unoccupied tables set up for a future step in the chain he puts his feet up on it and lounges. Down the dark hallway he can hear Cobb's voice, sharp and clear as ever, even though Eames is relatively sure the man has been jacked into the PASIV doing whatever it is he does in there when he's alone. You learn to snap awake quick after a few months working Extraction. After a few more you even learn to regulate your heart-rate to optimize waking performance, usually you snap out of the dream a wreck of nerves bolting like a lamb set for slaughter.

It takes years to come out not showing the signs of being haunted by the dream, to come out free of the tangles of your memories. Eames can tell how long a person has been working in the business just by looking at them usually. The newbies always have the same look, no matter how professional they want to appear. Out of the three of them, despite Arthur's youth, he'd say the Point-man had the most experience with PASIV technology. God only knows how, Eames would ask if he weren't quite so terrified of the answer. Arthur isn't military, he can tell it by the easy fluid movements, but former Intelligence, Eames couldn't hedge that bet to the negative. Arthur had that sly methodology, the OCD tendencies inherent in Government paper-pushers.

Arthur also had a wild-streak, to be slumming it up with Extractors, if he truly was former Intelligence. Eames doesn't really care either way, as long as Arthur is around now to push papers for them. Having someone else in Arthur's place, a different waking-shadow for Cobb, that just wouldn't sit right. No one alive could be quite the stick in the mud Arthur was, Eames liked it. It was infuriating, but he still liked it.

Cobb comes out fixing his tie, Arthur walking in perfect counter-step, it curls a little streak of jealousy through him, makes him wonder what all Arthur would do for Cobb. If he paid a little more attention to himself and less to the people around him, Eames would probably be a little disturbed by how simple walking could set off jealousy so deep, but he doesn't make it a habit to study his own emotions.

"Hello Eames, glad you could make it here so quickly, I would have come to ask you myself, but I've been busy. Glad Arthur could reach you." Cobb puts weight behind his words with a welcoming handshake, Eames makes it a point to stand, showing the proper respect. "What's the story then, no details in the email, just a plane ticket and confirmation of identity." Arthur had been a darling about Eames' orders, had done as asked with the web-cam, Eames has a recording of it just so the memory never fades.

"He did not make it easy." Arthur pipes up, has found Eames' present for him, and is trying to extract the coat without hurting the arrangement of his papers. Eames wishes he could give that his whole attention but Cobb has a dossier and is showing him pictures, he turns his attention to the job. "We've been hired to find the design plans for an experimental weapon, we have to go to the top this time, the people working on it are in too deep, too hard to get to." Cobb turns to a picture of the target. Young man, dark hair, dark eyes with a hard set to them that is typical to men who've been born into the weapons industry.

"This is Marcus Wake, he's on vacation here in São Paulo for another month, we have that as our deadline. While Wake Industries has an office here, he's only been there a few times sense arrival according to Arthur's sources." Cobb pages to the next pictures, Eames is willing to bet Arthur was also the one who had taken these, the man was an artist with the camera, something Eames had filled away some time ago.

It's a neon-saturated club-scene Wake is dancing with a pretty young-thing, a native by the cut of her dress and her tan. It's the same scene at different points from multiple angles, Eames isn't sure how the shots were so clear and yet managed to not get the photographer kicked out of the club. Paparazzi were not a wanted thing inside of these places, outside of course was another thing entirely. The photographer hadn't bothered taking pictures of the outside, everyone was contrived, postured on the way in, Eames knew these places well.

"We need you to get a feel of the Mark, an angle on how to best get this information." Cobb handed Eames the file to pursue at his leisure. Arthur had finally extracted the coat from his files and moved to hang it over Eames' chair as he'd wanted to do himself. There was no sign of annoyance, only a slight raising of the eyebrows when Eames smirks at him. Sliding into his procured chair he listens to Cobb's suggestions as he reads the documents they have on their mark.

But Eames already has his thoughts on how to get closer to their target. "What's the bankroll outside of our cut, I'll need to act a particular part to get close enough, and it will be costly." Eames can tell Cobb had figured on this with the way the man's jaw tensed at the statement. "After you have an idea of the background of the mark from those files, Arthur will drive you to pick up appropriate clothing to suit, and whatever else you think will be needed." Cobb is pulling on a coat, checking the wrinkles in his suit. "I've got some interviewing to do, we need to work as fast as we can here, as usual."

Eames watches him go out a side door, wherever he was going, it would be on foot apparently, leaving them the car. Unless they had another one stashed somewhere, usually they were more careful than that though, too many vehicles brought attention. Eames tended to just steal his, he wasn't likely to have a license accepted by the current country he was in anyway.

Eames lounges back out, gets comfortable in the chair, the sound of Arthur typing soothes him, this is how it usually is, Arthur busily working on the details of the work, Cobb out doing the foot-work to put the frame together. In the beginning, before Eames had to get into the field, get a handle on their mark, there was a lot of long stretches like this, but even with all that alone time with Arthur, he didn't know shit about the man's personal life. He was slowly starting to expect that Arthur might not even have a personal life.

It takes some time to read all the files, but Eames hasn't changed his mind about how to go at this, his instincts on par as usual. Somewhere into the first ten minutes, when Cobb was obviously not going to return, Arthur had set on some quiet music. Classical as usual, Eames couldn't ever pinpoint the exact titles, and the choices changed often. Eames' choice in music was something with a little more bite, and also a little more recent in terms of time. But asking Arthur to play some of the Sex Pistols or The Clash would probably be an exercise in futility. The stiff collared man probably didn't even like The Cure, Eames was willing to bet Arthur thought U2 was just a spy-plane.

Still though, the music was nice, something to fill in the space of silence that could stretch, Eames was thankful for it every time it started. He was willing to bet Arthur was the one to introduce Cobb to the musical countdown they used on their jobs.

Eames is on the last page of background, reading about the latest deals Wake's company are going through, when Arthur stands. He catches the display out of the corner of his eye, the slow stretch of arms upward, pulling the waist-coat up, revealing the tight stretch of a pale-blue button-up, the muscles laying beneath it. Eames is willing to bet that if he pressed his cheek there, the fabric would be softer than luxury bed-linens and so warm. Arthur's wardrobes always put Eames' to shame, but he still knew he cut quite a figure regardless. He also didn't have to deal with wearing a tie all the time, a cumbersome annoyance at best.

On Arthur it looked killer though, tucked into the waistcoat, bunching up a little as the man stretched. Eames licked his lips, ignoring the words on the page, studying Arthur instead. He was ace at this, watching people unnoticed, and he was assured that the subject of his fascination was clueless. It wouldn't do to let Arthur know the power he had over him, he wouldn't hold it above Arthur to use that slim pretty little body against him.

Pulling his waistcoat back down, Arthur's hands splay against silk, and Eames fixates on them again. He knows most of the time he looks like he's staring off into space, which is just fine, he'd rather people think him to be ignoring them, than for them to know otherwise. Such slender capable hands Arthur has, with such a gentle touch, and fuck now Eames is hard. Always Arthur does this to him, he knows it would probably be so much worse if he knew more about the man. As it is, this is hard enough, no pun intended.

Slim slender fingers, that could wrap and stroke, slide so soft against flesh. Eames has never felt Arthur's hands against his bare flesh, but he doesn't imagine there are many calluses to be found there, typing and gun work aren't as rough as one would be led to believe. Not to mention most of the gun-play was done in a place that left no lasting impressions on the physical body. Even rough would feel good, Eames doesn't really care, it would still be Arthur's hand around his cock, which is never going to happen.

"Ready to be my chauffeur darling?" Eames asks, finally looking Arthur dead-on, leaving the realm of fantasy behind. Arthur nods his acceptance, shutting off the music, giving Eames a nice show as he bends over his desk to do it. It's too hot outside to wear his coat, so he leave it behind, slung over his chair. Light has shifted towards evening, they'll have to work fast if they want to get Eames into the field tonight. It's silence between them till they are in the car. "There is something that isn't in the files Cobb gave you. While Wake does not appear to have been trained to protect against Extractors, we know his sister has been. There is some information hinting that his vacation here is not all pleasure." Arthur normally does not deal in rumors, if he's telling Eames this, it's all fact.

"He's being trained here in Brazil you mean?" Eames is watching out the window, understanding the true need to hurry, they needed to get this information out, before it became harder to access it. There was no way of knowing how many tricks Marcus Wake had already learned in order to trip up Extractors. "Yes, we do not know which group is doing the training, but it's a high probability that the longer we wait, the harder this will be." Arthur doesn't need to say it, Eames knows they are on a deadline far shorter than Cobb had told him.

"Thanks for the warning pet." Eames sighs, he doesn't let the shortened deadline weigh him down for long though, looking forward to the promise of a hand-tailored suit. He expected Arthur to just hand him a charge card, was pleased when the man followed him inside instead. Arthur had taste, Eames could not deny that, he just wished Arthur had the right taste in men.


	2. Chapter 2

The club is filled with people, the music is quieter than Eames had expected, he gets in with no resistance thanks to Arthur's clothing selection. Thanks to his own affinity for false identification too, he had a different identity everywhere he went, it was a testament of trust that he used his real last name when around Cobb's people. They weren't likely to find records for him anyway, he'd ceased to exist in Britain when he'd entered into the Intelligence business.

He managed to extract the prettiest of the usual customers in the club, she hangs off his arm, clings to him. He doesn't degrade her in his mind, has no reason to, she is helping him, and she is getting something out of him too. He is new, glamorous, she will get hits on Facebook as people try to figure out who it is she's hinting about. They'll never know though, because John Perregrin doesn't exist. He fixes his thick rimmed glasses, flashes a smile at the woman who hands him a drink and settles into the VIP lounge, hoping Wake chooses this Club to go to tonight.

He had a list of clubs the man frequented, they'd been very thorough in their research before he'd gotten here. While Cobb would have been able to work the club with less attention drawn to him, Eames knew by the attention to detail that it was most likely Arthur who had compiled all the information on Wake's activities in São Paulo.

Imagining Arthur weaving through the crowds of people, dressed to suit, sent a thrill through Eames that the pretty little thing pressed against him couldn't quite reach. He watches her pop a pill of some type, offers him one too, but he declines with a grin. She might have insulted him, but he isn't really listening to her, she leans against him, poses herself so that those who peer in from the dance-floor can see how pretty she is next to this handsome rich stranger.

Eames knows he can be considered handsome, but it's not the looks that count, it's the attitude, the allure of money, fame, power, it's a more powerful aphrodisiac then a pleasant jawline. He is giving off all of those and more, his mask is impeccable. He'd once had a girlfriend who'd told him he could have been a great actor, albeit this was after she'd smacked him one. If he could have given up the rush, the excitement, he probably would have taken that career path, but he cant, he loves this life.

Wake does come in, with a bodyguard and a "Date" something he has above Eames, he hadn't had to fish one up out of the crowd. The woman now snuggled into his side, drawing patterns on his silk vest is the prettier of the two though according to him. Wake tries to ignore him for the first hour, Eames is paging idly through a business magazine. He gives Wake's ego a stroke by doing a double-take at the man's photograph on the same magazine. Putting it down he makes sure the girl on his arm can see, her eyes narrow and she makes introductions for him.

Eames uses people, she suddenly knows Wake's date, very well apparently, they went to school together. "John." He gives a first name, a sign he doesn't want to be recognized, even if Wake tried, he wouldn't be able to find Mr. Perregrin anyway. "Marcus." Wake suddenly seems more interested in Eames than in his lady friend. They talk about the club scene, Marcus can tell by Eames' clothing that they are both suitably rich. The designer label t-shirt he's wearing under his silk vest cost more than a used-car, Arthur had picked it out.

After a few minutes Eames knows the right jokes to tell, the right things to say to get Marcus enthralled, the man is quick to trust those who give off the right aura. Eames has Marcus eating out of the palm of his hands, tells him about an imaginary business deal. It takes him no time at all to know that Marcus' sister Cynthia is the real power-wielder in the company, a fact that Marcus resents. The man doesn't tell him any of this, but he knows it clear as day. The atmosphere of the club turns cloudy like a dream, as Marcus leans into him, waving a cigar between them, a posture of masculinity, he's only seen the man take a few drags from it.

Eames is the one in charge here though, with wolfish grins, he can tell by the starstruck glint in Marcus' hard eyes that the man is soft on the inside. This will be so easy, no amount of training can protect someone who wants someone else to trust. Once, a long time ago, Eames might have felt bad about this. About manipulating and shaping, about knowing too much just by looking. But he doesn't, not anymore, it's just apart of him now, the dance of the social, another game, he knows all the rules knows all the steps.

Marcus is in love with him by the end of the night, the power he has, the way Eames strokes his ego. John is the top dog in their room, but the way he talks to Marcus makes the lesser-man feel like an equal. "My friend, we have to meet up tomorrow night. A restaurant maybe?" Marcus has an arm around his shoulders so that he can be heard on the way out, the music wrapping around them like a thick blanket. "Without the ladies." John says in his New Zealand accent, all the traces of Eames covered up by that dark mask. Marcus laughs, he's been making sexist jokes all night, emasculated by his sister he takes it out on the women who sleep with him.

Eames plays the perfect match to him, laughs and claps Marcus on the shoulder. "Pretty, but not so swift." Eames turns his head, uses the swelling music near the door to mask his comment from the women who trail after them, largely forgotten by Marcus already. It isn't a comment they need to hear, just one Marcus needs to think they have, his ploy succeeds. Eames may be playing the part, but these women have enough cracks in their brittle self-confidence, to need powerful men at their sides, Eames cannot add more pain there without taking some himself.

Stepping out into the night, Eames exchanges numbers with the man, they agree to meet at one of the best restaurants in town, Marcus promises to make the arrangements, since John will be in meetings all day tomorrow. They have lost the girls somehow in the exit, Eames hopes they will take care of each other, pills had been exchanged in abundance, downed with drinks, but they are not his responsibility right now. He waits till Marcus has been driven off, before sliding out of his suit coat and vest. He messes his hair up a bit less artfully, reenters the club as "Damien Belle".

He works his way around the perimeter where he can, searching. He finds her, the pretty little thing, her head resting on the shoulder of Marcus' date. They look apathetic, beautiful, they are posing again, birds amid neon lights. He leaves assured that she is alright, he couldn't sleep thinking otherwise. She isn't his responsibility, but he'd used her, just as she'd used him, and he couldn't leave without knowing they had parted on a draw.

As he exits for the second time, the song breaks down into an overlay of talking, it's surreal, dreamlike. As if the waking world is filtering through the smokey spotlighted dream of the club. He has a moment to focus on the lyrics as he is texting Arthur to pick him up. Outside he is able to focus, to suck in a deep breath of night-air and come down from it all. Arthur will hate him for dumping a designer label coat and vest, he's looking forward to the glare.

Arthur picks him up a few blocks from the club, perfectly pressed as always, even though Eames knows he has to have been sleeping right before this. Arthur lacks that snappy focus he usually has, has dark rings under his eyes. "So what have you done while I've been working love?" Eames asks, getting comfortable in the passenger seat. He closes his eyes and focuses on the softness of Arthur's voice.

"Cobb has found an Architect for the job from one of the local colleges. He was given very good references, but I'm not sure they will be able to come to terms with the moral implications." They are not going toward the warehouse, Eames can feel each turn of the car, his equilibrium mapping it. His luggage is still in the trunk, it would be nice to have a bed to crash in, they do not usually rent hotel rooms. A cot or lounge-chair in an empty warehouse tended to be their place of rest during most jobs. Eames was just glad it wasn't cold-concrete, he'd had experience with that.

He wakes quickly when he feels the soft press of fingers against the side of his neck. Arthur's hands are a mix of rough and soft, the pads of his fingertips have calluses there, from hard work, not just typing then. Eames reaches up, takes one of Arthur's hands in his own, brings it to his lips, he breathes against them a few times, before kissing along skilled fingertips. Fog rolls by outside, he can hear the song from the club playing in his head, early morning light tinges the world gray.

When he darts his tongue out to wrap around Arthur's finger he gets a gasp in response. His pulse races, he opens his eyes again. Arthur's hand is on his shoulder, thumb brushing his neck as he tries to shake him awake gently. It's still dark, the hotel is ahead of them. "I paid for a one bedroom double, I hope you do not mind sharing." Arthur's tone tells Eames there will be no arguments about this. "Not a bit darling." He drawls out, collecting his luggage, suddenly soul-deep tired. He follows Arthur up the steps to the second level of the hotel, it is a middle-class rest stop, nothing more. The beds are clean, when he buries his face half into the bed, the sheets smell like laundry detergent. Arthur doesn't bother turning on the light, so it is his silhouette against the light filtering through the window curtains that Eames watches undress.

He's too tired for his body to react, but he's memorizing each moment. Arthur's hands dance down buttons, he has a strong back, slim waist. He undoes the buttons of his too-expensive shirt as well, slides out of it, hangs it up on the back of the single chair in the room. The air is shuddering the curtains, it creates a play of light against Arthur's pale skin that makes Eames wish he wasn't too tired to jerk off. Mind is willing, so willing, but the body just isn't following through. Arthur slips out of his slacks, hangs them up too, he wears silk boxers, they shine in the dim light, a light gray, like early morning, like a dream. Eames already knows what he'll be dreaming about, rubbing his cheek against that fabric, feeling willing hardness beneath.

"Quite fit for a professional dreamer, love." He says, still watching Arthur as the man sits on the edge of his own bed and fiddles with the alarm clock. "Yes well, I get shot at in the waking world on a regular basis, you should know that, debt collectors et al." Arthur snaps back, Eames loves it when he does that. Arthur turns, shifts under the sheets, Eames watches the silhouette of him, watches his shoulder rise and fall with his breath. "Next time you should get a single bed room love, I'd like to see how fit you really are." Eames' knows his voice is muffled by the pillows, he also knows that wont matter, Arthur will hear him anyway.

"I will keep that in mind when our backing pulls out next time." Arthur is dead serious, it sends a thrill through Eames. "Goodnight." Arthur adds, his tone finite, the conversation was over. Eames closes his eyes, he's looking forward to his dreams for they are almost as good as the real thing, he's sure.

The Architect does indeed have a moral dilemma, he comes back though, multiple times, if they didn't need him, Cobb probably would have dropped him. Arthur is nothing but patience and explanations with the kid, but the guy still walks out a few more times. Eames is on ball as usual, he knows Marcus' type, knows what he likes in bed, knows his favorite fucking food, but they still aren't ready. He's waiting, has put on the mask of Sarah so many times, the perfect woman for Wake. She's pretty, ditsy, she will boost his ego, she'll get those designs from whatever place he's locked them away in. Eames doesn't feel guilty at all, using Marcus, John is his friend, not Eames, masks and layers, nothing touches him anymore.

Except for the other Extractors, he's told them his name, or a part of it. Nothing touches him except for Arthur, who looks up at him after seven hours spent revising the Architect's model and smiles, ever so soft, ever so self-depreciating. There was annoyance in his eyes, shared by Eames, and the moment had been perfect, and gods had it made Eames want to pound the Point-man into a fucking table. It wasn't that he thought about sex all the time, it was just that Arthur made him think about sex, and not just sex, which was dangerous. Arthur was dangerous all in himself, so many mysteries, so much unknown, and Eames wanted to get inside and unfold him, open up all those secrets like a present on Christmas morning. Learn every lie, every truth, hear what Arthur sounded like weak, pleading, he wanted to hear Arthur's real voice, the one under that mask of the consummate professional, the one that cared about something other than the job.

He wondered if Cobb had heard it, if that was why Arthur followed him, took the anger, kept working with the man. Eames doesn't delude himself, he is jealous, feels sometimes like Cobb is still his rival, but this has nothing to do with jobs. It has everything to do with whether or not Cobb is fucking Arthur, Mal can be terribly cruel to Arthur. It makes Eames want to be terribly cruel to Cobb, but that would solve nothing, and he actually rather likes the man aside from that jealous notion he has. Dom is a good friend, and an ace Extractor, he wouldn't want to be on cross-sides with him.

Arthur picks him up from the clubs, restaurants, hotels rooms, every night save the one before they plan to do the job. Cobb is driving instead, looks grave, Eames doesn't want any bad news, he wants Arthur, wants to listen to the man breathe in the darkness, or putter around in the bath. "We've found out which company is training Wake, they are one of the top in the business." Cobb would know, the man is a relative expert on the PASIV system, he probably knows more about the business than Eames does now. "So the difficulty rating has gone up then?" Eames realizes they are going to pull an all-nighter, Cobb is driving back to the warehouse. Tomorrow they'll be done, going their separate ways, he doesn't get one last night with Arthur, more bad news.

There was always the next job though, maybe one without stable backing, that was something to look forward to. Eames is the only one smiling in the warehouse, everyone is all frowns and scowls, working harder than ever before testing drug mixtures, working out kinks in the architecture, Eames settles himself down in the chair he'd claimed that first day, notes that someone has gone over his coat with a lint brush. He reviews his notes, there isn't anything he can do now outside of the dream, it's all done on his end, if it fucks up in there, he'll just have to roll with it.

They run through the dreamscape, or at least he and Arthur do, Cobb doesn't even bother looking at the model in a glance anymore, if he knew more than the cursory plan Mal would just come in and fuck their world over right well. Arthur does a run through of the environment of the first dream, it's a club just like the club where he first met Marcus, this is his dream, his architecture, filled with Arthur's subconscious it has become a rather bland place, on the true run it will be Wake's subconscious there instead. He shifts masks, Sarah is a beautiful thing to hide in, she's shorter than Arthur, with black-black hair, green eyes. Arthur does a double take at first, then stares hard, before looking away. "What's wrong love?" They are in the VIP lounge it is more secluded than the one in the original club, he presses his hand to Arthur's chest. Sarah has small hands, he slides them to Arthur's shoulders, presses them together, starts moving in a dance.

"The music will come soon." Arthur wont look at Sarah, keeps his eyes downcast, Eames remembers the distaste Arthur had displayed the first time he'd brought out the Blond, he'd put more care into Sarah because of it. He'd thought at first the aversion was to a man pretending to be a woman, it wasn't a novel concept to think Arthur was phobic of sexual deviations. But this is something different, he moves them with his hips, moves them to the music, and Arthur goes, this is where the second dream takes them down, it wont be long now, they'll get the warning and then they'll be deeper down. "Love do you dance this stiff with all the ladies?" Sarah teases, her voice is a husky sweet rumble that Marcus will like, he thinks he slept with her once, a long time ago.

"She doesn't work on me Eames." Arthur whispers, barely heard above the music, it's not the club's music, the countdown has started. "What does then pet?" Eames whispers this time, he's taller than Arthur, can wrap his arms around him easily, still moves them with his hips. "Read between the lines." They plummet into the next dream, it's cold here, and Arthur is no longer in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Marcus is sitting, he's talking about his latest business deal to Sarah, she hangs on his every word, when Marcus catches her out on her lack of understanding she takes his hateful insults, seemingly doesn't understand them, or think Marcus is so funny. She's gorgeous, long legs, stiletto heels, a skirt that is so short it almost shows more than it covers. Sarah puts her cheek to his shoulder, listens to him, Eames filters it out. He barely registers the pawing, the proprietary grabs, the kissing, his mind is elsewhere. He's trying to read between lines he hadn't known existed, his heart isn't in this. But Sarah is not the most passionate of people, she giggles, bats hands away, looks sultry when needed.

When the time skip happens, Marcus doesn't know what hit him. Sarah is at his side, looking every bit the perfect shoulder-candy wife. A cream colored dress, hugging all the right places, her breasts perfect, covered enough to be tasteful, leaving only a little to the imagination. They stand at the top of a grand staircase, arm in arm, it is a party, filled with people. It is an engagement party, Sarah and Marcus are getting married, because Sarah is the perfect opposite of Cynthia, and Marcus wants to rub it in his sister's face, what he thinks she should be. Vapid, vague, beautiful. Eames sees Cobb first, leaning in toward another man, he focuses further, it's Arthur, camera in hands.

Eames wants to go to him, instead he turns them around, leading Marcus gently. "Look Marc, there is your uncle, would you introduce me to him?" Sarah breathes out against Marcus' neck, watches Cobb and Arthur turn down a corridor.

For the next few hours he runs resistance for the Extractor and his Point-man, is degraded, looked down on, felt up, pushed around. He's seething by the time the shots ring out, angry enough to kill. He breaks Marcus' arm in three places instead, leans over him as guards struggle to get into the locked study. He's waiting for Cobb to come in the far door, the one leading to the balcony. "You are a disgusting individual Marcus, your sister is right to cut down your allowance, you need to be put over someone's knee and spanked." He's himself again, except Marcus doesn't know him, only knows John.

Marcus looks terrified, doesn't know where Sarah has gone, only that this shade from his past is here now. Cobb steps down onto the balcony, calls something up to Arthur above, Eames hears the shots, watches Cobb's gaze go wide in surprise, then narrow. The Extractor steps back, Arthur falls to the deck below, broken like a rag doll, shot in the back, his breathing labored. Fucking shades, had to be Mal, had to be, the guards wouldn't have taken their eyes off of him that fast after he'd caught their attention. Eames has to look away when Cobb takes aim, they've lost Arthur, no way he can walk, no way he can work.

Cobb gets down to work searching the room for a safe, for something, Marcus is terrified, staring at Eames, holding his broken arm. Eames isn't having a good day, he leans in to Marcus slowly. "Where is it you pansy little fucker?" He whispers harshly, pulls every alpha wolf trick in the book, John is pushing Marcus into the wall. "This is just a dream!" Marcus blurts out, finally with the program. "Yes it is, but... I can still hurt you." Eames wants to hurt, wants to twist and bruise, Arthur's body is lifeless behind him, he knows it's not that way in the waking world. But he cannot get the sight of labored breathing out of his head, the way Arthur was broken, spent, how much that had to hurt.

When Marcus tries to look superior, Eames slams him into the wall hard, gets up in his face, puts a hand hard to his collar, bruises. "So much pain Marcus, and I can do it too, you know I can. I know where to hurt you, I know you Marc." His eyes narrow, he knows the exact moment Wake breaks. Eames does know him, and Marcus gives a stiff shudder, it's a testament to his trainers that he lasted this long, Marcus is a weak man.

They get out, leave the back room of the club, leave Marcus to nightmares. Eames cannot help but put a hand on Arthur's shoulder as they are packing up the warehouse, he needs to know, needs to be sure that Arthur is alright. When Arthur looks up at him, there is quiet confusion there, and then a brief smile. He doesn't touch Arthur again that night, feels a little like he's been burned. "The room is paid up one more night." Arthur gives him the key-card. "I have a flight to catch in two hours, pay should hit your account by noon." The night is still young, Eames bids Arthur goodbye with a kiss to the air, cheeky as always.

He should call a car to pick him up, but he needs to get his head clear, decides to walk instead. He should know better, should have used his fucking head. It's too late, they come up from behind, the drugs work swift, Eames is down before he can see his attackers, is kind of glad it's him and not Arthur at least. Arthur safe on his plane, safe away from this, where Eames cannot see his body laying broken on a balcony.

When he comes to he's groggy, on his side, the bed is soft, and everything is fuzzy. He cannot tell whether it's a dream or drugs, it hits him that hard. When the older man leans over him, bright blue eyes glinting, terror wars with confusion, he hopes to god it's just a dream. "Howard, didn't I teach you better then to get caught?" The man's voice is gravelly, too many cigarettes, too many years undercover, just as Eames remembered it. "I must be slipping." Eames feels the fear curling up his spine, feels his pulse race. "Mate, this is going to hurt me more than you. You were my star student you know, best in the business. Tell me what you took." Eames hadn't been aware Jackson had gone into the private sector.

If he'd known he was the trainer, was Marcus' trainer, he never would have accepted the job. It does hurt, Eames doesn't know it's a dream till he dies, Jackson's blade buried deep in his gut. Doesn't know it's a dream till they put him back under, till it happens all over again. His voice goes raw from the screaming, when he awakens next, thinks he's awake at least, there are hands gripping through his hair. It's a matter of pride not to break, the job means shit, Cobb means shit to him now, but pride is bone-deep. He was taught not to break, by this very man, he isn't going to be doing it now. "You know I never told you this." Jackson is preparing a syringe, Eames doesn't know what is in it, but knows it will probably hurt going in. "You became like my own son Howard, I'm proud of you. You far surpassed our expectations."

The needle does hurt going in, whatever is in it works fast. Colors blur together, pain is numbed, this is a different type of torture, when he hits the dream it's like drowning. He sobs, coming up on an ocean, he tries to move his hands but they are bound. Cold water smacks his face, he's forced awake, the world is blurry disjointed, Jackson's grin is a cold leer, a pale-moon. "Fuck your expectations." Eames' words are slurred, he gets backhanded, but doesn't feel it, another needle and he goes down again.

There are stars above him, they are beautiful, Arthur looks down at him, moves, whispers something into his ear, he feels himself bleeding away, when Jackson wakes him next, the room is filled with morning light. "You're so resilient Howard." He always used his first name, no one else, no one in the whole fucking unit had used his first name, no one since school had called him Howard. They are running through a maze, he's being trained to find information that has been hidden. Jackson is following along, watching him avoid traps, use masks to twist the reality of the subject he is infiltrating. Eames has a niggling feeling there is something he is supposed to remember, but it's not coming.

"The subject hid their secrets deep, I want you to find them." Jackson always sounds so fucking smug, always so quick to point out when Eames is faltering. There is rumor that the trainer was a former Military Intelligence Psychologist, worked in propaganda, subliminal messaging to drive the enemy insane. Eames works deeper into the practice maze, breaks through locks, mirrors, false doors, he manipulates, he will be the fucking best at this. He blends into the corners of rooms filled with projections, goes unnoticed because he is a master of the mask, the fucking best. "Don't get too cocky." Jackson berates him, a man with a gun turns on him, he narrowly misses, the room turns on him, he has to run.

Chased, he goes through door after door, putting distance and then rooms between them, Jackson is still there, following along, unseen, but Eames can feel him, watching, waiting for him to fail. He grits his teeth, anger driving him forward, the need to prove himself, he finds the safe, but it's locked, his wrist is broken from a near fatal fall down a staircase that ends abruptly, he doesn't know why but it's so familiar. "So what is the combination Howard?" Jackson asks him, right by his side, he can see him now, looking at him, taunting him because Eames hadn't found a combination. "How the bloody fuck should I know?" He snaps, so young, so full of ire and the need to prove himself, angry when he cant. Behind Jackson, in the hallway, he can see a snap of shadows, something races by the door.

But the maze is finished, the training has ended, why would they put another enemy there. He is unarmed, perhaps it's just the dream tricking him, or maybe they haven't worked out the balance in their current drug cocktail. "You have already seen it, you know it, recall what it is Howard." Jackson sounds terse with him, the teasing finished it seems. Eames racks his brain, tries to find it, to remember the past few hours, the maze he'd been running through. The shadow passes again, he can make out a little more of the details, it's a man, with a fine-tailored suit. Eames thinks perhaps this projection is a memory, maybe one of the men he'd fucked on leave. His head hurts from trying to remember, the combination is caught up somewhere, wrapped with lean lines, strong looking shoulders, a slender waist.

"Arthur." He whispers, eyes widening a fraction as he watches Jackson's hand fracture, gun dropped as a bullet tears through his skin. Screaming pain, his heart is beating madly, Jackson drops to the ground, but Arthur is still holding the gun at the same angle, Eames isn't expecting it, it doesn't hurt when Arthur shoots him, but he isn't expecting it.

The room is spinning, the lights dance sideways, upside down, he cannot breathe, cannot feel the bed beneath him. He is breaking apart, loosing every bit of himself, memories hit him suddenly, disappear, as his mind struggles to reconcile reality and finds it impossible due to the drugs making it go pear-shaped. He cannot even fight the hands that press to his arms, hold him down, he's thrashing, blind to all but bright lights, when the needle presses to his skin though, he can feel lips against his ear. "I'm sorry, shh, it's alright now, I've got you." and against all knowledge to the opposite Eames relaxes and lets the darkness take him, the shadows are warm.

When he awakens the room smells different, he's been stripped, the sheets feel like ice against his skin, when he moves it's like rolling through an ocean of silk. It isn't the same room, he's been moved. He can only hear a loud hum, a steady rhythm, he doesn't recognize it as rain till his eyes can focus on the window. Neon is reflected in glass and streaked wet, the night is brilliant black, the room is dark. He stretches again, his wrists are raw from being tied, the cold sheets feel good against them. He knows he's tripping out of his mind, but he's not dreaming, it all feels much too real. When fingers card through his hair gently, he breathes out a deep sigh of relief, sobs rack through him, and he hadn't even known he'd been crying. "It's alright, I've got you." Arthur whispers against the back of his neck, wraps his arms around him, holds him tight.

Eames grounds himself in the warmth, the sounds of rain, the feel of Arthur wrapped so tight. He's breaking apart like glass, a thousand tiny pieces, and the drugs make it impossible to know where to put them to make himself whole again. He turns in the circle of Arthur's arms, he thinks vaguely that hurt will help it all go away, pain will ground it, he presses forward, captures a smooth jaw between his hands, when he kisses Arthur he finds no resistance though as he'd expected. Arthur's arms go rigid around him for a moment, before holding him tighter. When Arthur starts kissing back, Eames can read the words between the lines. It's okay, it's all okay, because Arthur has him, no more pain, it's all okay now.

He rolls over, presses Arthur into the bed, straddles his lap, the drugs are wicked, lap at the edges of his conscious. A thrill goes up his spine, he pulls back, looks down at Arthur, at kiss-bruised lips, at unbuttoned dress-shirt. "The drugs should wear off in two more hours, I took the bottle so I could be sure what it was he was using." Arthur's voice is soft, all business, it makes Eames' cock throb like it's been shut in something, it hurts he's so bloody hard. He grinds down against Arthur, lines them up, feels a matching hardness there, grinds against it breathlessly. Arthur's eyes are beautiful, they dilate with pleasure, Eames will never get enough of it.

"How did you find me?" Eames doesn't really care, only knows that Arthur did, there can be no saying other-wise, his dreams have never felt like this, have never felt this good. "My flight was canceled from weather. I wanted to take you to breakfast, you were missing. I tracked your cell." The only inclination Eames has that Arthur is enjoying the steady friction is the way the man's voice hitches on that last word. Eames bites and laps against Arthur's neck, tastes his pulse, feels the world coming undone. "Fuck love, I'm breaking apart." Eames whimpers. "You should leave." He grinds out, after the drugs pass there will just be memories, he can handle those, bury them under liquor, pour them into passion, use someone else as the willing body. He doesn't want to do this to Arthur, doesn't want to ground himself, find himself in Arthur, and loose the other man forever.

"Shh, you're alright, you're right here, with me." Arthur's voice is soft, patient. Eames buries his face against the spot between Arthur's neck and shoulder, tastes the bruise he'd left there from teeth and hard suction. "I need-" Eames breaks off, his voice wavering, he doesn't know what he needs, everything is dark. Arthur looks up at him, blue light makes him ethereal, surreal. "Anything." Arthur tells him, and Eames comes undone. It feels like a blur, even though it all seems to be happening so slow, fingers slick, he presses Arthur apart. He is sitting back against the headboard, Arthur's hands bracing against his shoulders. Arthur is going down on him, so very slow, taking him in, and Eames has to teach himself to breathe again. It's good, better than his dreams ever could be, he just wishes it didn't feel so broken, so disjointed.

The drugs make it hard to focus, but when Arthur moves, he snaps to attention, excruciating delicious attention. His cock throbs, the thin sheath of the condom doing very little to dull the sensation of Arthur rocking down on him. He watches, far away, as his hands go to Arthur's hips, gently guide him. The Point-man lowers his face to Eames' neck, panting breath hot against bare skin. Eames bucks up into Arthur, uses the bed as leverage, listens to the man suck in breath, feels the shudder of pleasure run through him. "Anything." Arthur had said, and Eames takes everything, pushing up into him, thrusting, grounding himself till it gets too much. He pushes Arthur over, pounds into him, bites and laps and rubs his face against Arthur's shoulder. The drugs twist everything, make it last so long, and yet not long enough, he wants to feel this forever, each little gasp Arthur makes, each deep thrust.

But he can't and he bites down on the cry, it comes out a muffled broken sound against Arthur's shoulder, it's painful, so fucking good, his vision goes dark and he cannot help going limp on top of Arthur. Still so deep, buried in him, and it's too fucking much, his cock throbbing every time Arthur breathes, he whimpers. Arthur's arms are around him again, gently rubbing down his back, holding him, and that makes it all bearable. He breathes in deeply, waits till his heart-rate slows before rolling to the side, sliding out. He doesn't notice till he collapses beside him, that Arthur had come too. A fact that warms Eames, puts a cocky smile on his lips, pieces him back together a little more. Arthur turns, cleans himself off with something, then cleans Eames up. At first it's too much, Eames tries to crawl away from Arthur's hands, but then it's over, Arthur is fast, capable. Eames' pulse races a little, thinking of everything those hands could be capable of.

Arthur lays back down, turns with the blanket, wraps them both into it. "Do you still need me here?" He asks, fatigue in his tone, Eames knows that despite that, Arthur would go if asked, if he wasn't prepared to, he would have just told Eames to shove it if it came up. "Always darling." Eames is afraid Arthur will hear the truth under his teasing. He wraps Arthur up into his arms, is comforted by the weight of the Point-man's head against his shoulder. Eames watches the rain fall, he doesn't sleep till the drugs wear off, till he knows the feel of Arthur's body against him without the veil of drugs. It's something he never wants to forget.

In the morning Arthur is gone, but there are plane tickets on the table, a set of keys to a car, a photograph, and his coat. He thumbs the sleeve of his coat, slings it over his shoulder, picks up the photograph. John Perregrin is lit by the club lights, he is leaning into the pretty little thing on his arm, they are sharing something. Eames burns it in the bath, feels a portion of himself burning away with it, cool sheets and a warm body fill the space left behind. Before he burns it he sees the words written on the back, Arthur's ever neat script. "I shot him in the knee." Eames knows this isn't the last time he'll see his old trainer, but it's the last time he'll let himself be burned by him.

He doesn't sleep on the plane, watches São Paulo fade beneath him, he's looking forward to the next job, when it comes. Looking forward to working with Cobb again, and Arthur. The grin he wears isn't a mask, it's all him, oh yes, he's looking forward to seeing Arthur again. Definitely.


End file.
